Then the Butcher heard the click-clack of a woman's high heels. The inviting, even intoxicating sound came from up ahead of him on the sidewalk, which was brick rather than pavement and wound through the neighborhood like a necklace laid out flat on a table.

Finally, he saw the woman from behind – a fine, shapely thing, with long black hair hanging halfway to her waist. An Irisher like himself? A pretty lassie? No way to tell for certain from the back view. But the chase was on. Soon he'd know as much as he wanted to about her. He felt he was already in control of her fate, that she belonged to him, to the Butcher, his powerful alter ego, or perhaps the real him. Who could say?

He was getting closer and closer to the raven-haired woman, checking out the narrow alleyways that ran behind some of the larger houses, the patches of woods, looking for a good spot – when he saw a store up ahead. What was this?

The only place of business he'd encountered for blocks. It almost seemed misplaced in the neighborhood.

Sarah's Market, said the sign out front.

And then the dark-haired beauty turned inside. "Curses – foiled," the Butcher whispered, and grinned and imagined twisting a villain's mustache. He loved this kind of game, this dangerous and provocative cat-and-mouse sort of thing in which he made up all the rules. But his smile instantly faded away – because he saw something else at this Sarah's Market, and that something else was not to his liking.

Newspapers were on display – copies of the Washington Post. And you know what? He suddenly remembered that Mr. Bob Woodward himself lived somewhere in the area – but that wasn't the sticky part.

His face was the problem, an approximation anyhow, a line drawing of the Butcher that wasn't half-bad. It was situated above the fold of the daily news, right where it shouldn't be.

"My God, I'm famous."

Chapter 80

THIS WAS NO LAUGHING MATTER, though, and Michael Sullivan quickly made his way back to where he'd parked on Q Street. Actually, what had happened was just about the worst development he could imagine. Nothing much seemed to be going his way lately.

He sat and calmly pondered the unfortunate situation in the front seat of his Cadillac.

He thought about the likely "suspects," about the woman who must have told tales out of school about him. Possibly given the police a description. He considered that he was being attacked from a couple of sides at once, by the Washington police and the Mafia. What to do, what to do?

When a partial solution came, it was satisfying and even exhilarating, because it felt like a new game to him. Another twist of the dial.

The DC police thought that they knew what he looked like, which could be serious trouble but might also make them sloppy and even overconfident.

Mistake.

Theirs.

Especially if he made the proper countermoves right now, which he definitely planned to do. But what, exactly, were those defensive actions he needed to take?

The first step took him to Wisconsin Avenue, near Blues Alley – right where he remembered the small shop to be. A barber named Rudy had a chair open for him in midafternoon, so Sullivan settled in for a haircut and shave.

It was relaxing and mildly enjoyable actually, wondering what he'd look like afterward, whether he'd like the new him.

Another ten to twelve minutes and the deed was done. Take off the bandages, Dr. Frankenstein. The smallish, rotund barber seemed pleased with himself.

If you messed up, you're dead. I'm not kidding, Rudy, the Butcher thought to himself. I'll cut you to ribbons with your own straight razor. See what the Washington Post has to say about that!

But, hey! "Not so bad. I sort of like it. Think I look a little like Bono."

"Sonny and Cher – that Bono?" asked Rudy the Dense. "I don't know about that, mister. I think you better lookin' than Sonny Bono. He's dead, you know?"

"Whatever," said Sullivan, and paid his tab, gave the barber a tip, and got the hell out of there.

Next, he drove over to the Capitol Hill neighborhood in DC.

He'd always liked the area, found it a turn-on. Most people's image of the Capitol was the graceful steps and terraces of the west facade. But on the east side, behind the Capitol and the Supreme Court and Library of Congress buildings, was a bustling residential neighborhood that he knew fairly well. I've passed this way before.

The Butcher walked through Lincoln Park, which had an exceptional view of the Capitol dome now that the leaves were falling away.

He smoked a cigarette and reviewed his plan in front of the somewhat bizarre Emancipation Memorial, which featured a slave breaking out of chains while Lincoln read the Emancipation Proclamation.

Lincoln, a good man by most accounts. Myself, a very bad man. Wonder how that happens? he wondered.

A few minutes later, he was breaking in to a house on C Street. He just knew this was the bitch who had talked about him. He felt it in his bones, in his blood. And soon, he'd know for sure.

He found Mena Sunderland tucked away in her adorable little kitchen. She was dressed in jeans, an immaculate white tee, scuffed-up clogs, making pasta for one while she sipped a glass of red wine. Cute as a button, he thought to himself.

"Did you miss me, Mena? I missed you. And you know what? I almost forgot how pretty you are."

But I won't forget you again, darling girl. I brought a camera to take your picture this time. You're going to he in my prize photo collection after all. Oh, yes you are!

And he gave her the first cut with his scalpel.

Chapter 81

I WAS STILL INSIDE the church when my cell phone went off, and it was trouble near the Capitol. I said a quick prayer for whoever was in jeopardy, and a prayer that we would catch the killer-rapist soon. Then I left St. Anthony's on the run.

Sampson and I rushed to the neighborhood behind the Capitol building in his car with the siren blaring, lights flashing on the rooftop. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung up everywhere by the time we arrived. The scene, the backdrop of important government buildings, couldn't have been more dramatic, I thought, as Sampson and I hurried up the four stone front steps of a brownstone.

Is he putting on a show for us? Is he doing it on purpose? Or did it just happen this way?

I heard a car alarm whining and glanced back toward the street. What a strange, curious sight: police, news reporters, a growing crowd of looky-loos.

Fear was plainly stamped on many of the faces, and I couldn't help thinking that this was a familiar tableau of the age, this look of fear, this terrible state of fear that the whole country seemed to be caught up in – maybe the entire world was afraid right now.

Unfortunately, it was even worse inside the brownstone. The crime scene was already being tightly controlled by somber-faced homicide detectives and techies, but Sampson was let inside. He overrode a sergeant's objections and brought me along.

Into the kitchen we went.

The unthinkable murder scene.

The killer's workshop.

I saw poor Mena Sunderland where she lay on the reddish-brown tile floor. Her eyes were rolled back to the whites, and they seemed pinned to a point on the ceiling. But Mena's eyes weren't the first thing I noticed. Oh, what a bastard this killer was.

A carving knife was stuck in her throat, poised like a deadly stake. There were multiple wounds on the face, deep, unnecessarily vicious cuts. Her top, a white tee, had been torn away. Her jeans and panties had been pulled down around the ankles but hadn't been stripped off. One of her shoes was on, one off, a pale-blue clog lying on its side in blood.

Sampson looked at me. "Alex, what are you getting? Tell me."